Chapter Seventy-Two
A glorious morning despite the chill. Bright sunshine and blue skies pick out frost lacing tumbles of fallen leaves, spangling the lawns and making a black and white tracery of naked winter trees.
Banging, clanging and weird gurgling noises echo up from somewhere in the bowels of the house. I’m guessing the racket is connected to the ice-cold water which is all I could coax from the bath or shower this morning.
In the dining room, my Master is already there with coffee and cereal, reading from his tablet. His briefcase stands open, assorted folders in neat order peeking out. Despite the fire glowing in the hearth, I tug a cardigan tightly around myself. “What’s all the noise about?”
He glances up. “I’m afraid the boiler threw a tantrum in the night, then laid down to die. Ross is trying to resurrect the thing. Eke a little more life out of it.”
Tipping muesli into a bowl, I test a jug for heat, then pour warm milk over my own breakfast. “Ross is repairing the boiler?”
“It’s useful having someone around the place who can turn his hand to most things, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why don’t we just replace the damn thing? It’s ten years older than God anyway.”
He blows out his cheeks. “As soon as the weather warms, my Love, replacing that boiler is the first item on my list. But until then, I don’t want to risk losing our main source of heating and our only source of hot water…” He arches questioning brows at me… “… I’m guessing you would prefer not to have to bathe by boiling up the kettle?”
I tug the cardigan a little tighter. “I take your point.”
Lips quirking… “Thought so.” Returning to his tablet, idly scrolling with one hand, he spoons up cereal with the other.
Pausing in his scrolling, he frowns, tapping into a message. As he reads, he brings the screen closer, the frown deepening.
“Something wrong, Master?”
His attention jolts toward me and the frown evaporates, replaced with a smile. “It's nothing, my Love.” Tapping off the screen, he straightens up, sliding the tablet aside. The smile broadens, creasing up into his eyes. “My apologies. I shouldn't do this at breakfast, should I. A time when we should be enjoying each other’s company. Talking together. I have an entire workday in the office to deal with my messages. Oh…”
… He raises a finger… “… On the subject of talking, that girl from the newspaper you hit it off with at the charity gala. Schmidt’s niece. Claudia was it? She’s sent me the article she wrote after that impromptu interview you set up between us.”
He re-opens the tablet, tapping through screens until a page of text opens up, then slides it across the table to me... “… This is what she's sent in for my approval.”
I speed-scan the contents… Mr Haswell spoke at length on the responsibilities of the wealthy and the privileged to employ their wealth to useful purpose…
“… It might mean, for example, enabling improvement of basic living conditions by, for example, ensuring the supply of clean water, or the provision of mosquito nets. In my own case, I create new dwellings and restore crumbling ones. It is a happy circumstance that by doing what I do best, while my personal wealth increases, there is a positive impact on those who live in the dwellings I create…”
“Are you happy with it?”
He clicks his tongue. “It's a decent piece of work. A nice balance between the interview-with-a-celebrity style and hard content intended to make a point.”
“You're going to give her the green light to publish, then?”
“Oh, yes...” His lips twitch. “… If only to wipe that smug smile off her uncle’s face. Schmidt puts entirely too much effort into maintaining his glass ceiling. Given that the girl’s competent and seems trustworthy, I’m happy to help her up a rung or two. In fact, I've agreed to a follow-up interview. She's coming by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Coming? Coming here, you mean?”
“Yes. Given that you struck up a rapport, and invested your time and mine with her, I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Thank you, Master. And yes, I would enjoy that. Um… what does she want to interview you about this time?”
“I think she’s looking for a more extended version of our first conversation. She asked me to follow on with whatever I was most comfortable with and whatever points I would like to make.” Closing the folder, he sits back, hands clasped on his lap. “So, my Love, what are your plans for the day?”
I slide his tablet back across the table. “I want to get to grips with the household accounts. I asked Mrs Martin to see all the post comes addressed directly to me, so there should be plenty now for me to work with. After I’ve done that, I’ll put in some more work on the police project.”
“So… you’re not planning on coming into the office?”
“Not today. I can work just as well from here. Is… Is that alright?”
“Of course it is. Work in whatever way is best for you.” He pauses, sucking air between his teeth as he glances at his tablet. “I may be late this evening, Elizabeth. There is a small matter I need to get to the bottom of. So eat when it suits you. Don’t wait for me.”
***A peck on the cheek and I wave my Master off, his BMW gliding away down the curve of the drive to the gate.***
***Right…***
***Household accounts…***
***High time I took hold of the reins…***
***Should be plenty waiting for me…***
***A brief stop off in the kitchen for coffee, then mug in hand, I wend my way through to the household office next door, once the province of Mrs Martin, the housekeeper, now claimed as my own.***
***But in the office, the desktop is clear and the in-tray, which should by now be stacked with mail, is empty.***
***I tug at drawers…***
***Locked…***
***Cupboard doors… Locked…***
***Filing cabinet… Also, freakin’ well locked…***
***And I've had enough.***
***Opening up the contact on my mobile, I wait, foot tapping, but as the line connects, it clicks, then… This is Catherine Martin. I’m not available right now…***
***Damn…***
***Still, with a snap in my voice. “Mrs Martin, it’s Beth Haswell here. I’m in the house office and there’s no mail here. I've instructed you now, several times, that the household paperwork is to come directly to me. Now where is it?”***
***Simmering, I snap off my phone.***
***Is she avoiding me?***
***Sprinting up the back stairs to the attic level where my housekeeper runs her empire, my simmer boils up to full-steam, my personal temperature running wayyy ahead of that excuse for a boiler in the basement.***
***The scent of fresh laundry hangs in the air. A wisp of steam rises from a damp patch on an ironing board.***
***But I don’t see my housekeeper.***
***“Mrs Martin?”***
***No reply.***
***I pace up and down the long hallway and the rooms off, left and right. “Mrs Martin?”***
***Still nothing…***
***Nada…***
***Crickets…***
***I called her and she's left?***
***Despite the fragrance of clean linen, the main scent in the air is rat.***
By way of a change, the air whiffs oil and damp where, in the bowels of the basement, pipes reverberate with metallic hammering.
I follow a trail of clangs, clunks and cussing to find Ross twisted in a sort of human origami under a mess of valves, dials and ducting. Spanner in hand, wearing a muck-stained boiler suit, he aims a stream of insult and invective at the superannuated monster that passes for our heating system. As I watch, he wrenches at a valve with the spanner, checks a dial, curses, bangs at the dial with the spanner, rechecks, and bangs again… “Move, you fucking thing…”
“Ross…” His mouth snaps closed and his head pops up... “… have you seen Mrs Martin?”
He unfolds from his position under the piping. “She was here a few minutes ago, mouthing off about not having hot water. She could see I’m working on it, but she got into a bit of a snit before she stomped off.”
“You don’t sound very sympathetic.”
He sniffs. “I’m trying to patch the damn thing enough to keep going ‘til spring. It’s running on band aids and chewing gum. Her getting stroppy with me won’t make the water any hotter any faster.”
“Ross, what happens with the mail when it’s delivered?”